Wicked
by ultSmarsh
Summary: Evil is gone, everyone is happy, they have killed the wicked. So, as she slips away from the party, why does the pit in Annabeth's stomach weigh her down? Set right after the Last Olympian, she takes one night away from good, and decides to mourn the wicked.
1. Chapter 1

There she was for an instant, staring at the broken body of her friend.

And just like that, the instant was swept away through the winds of celebration that coursed through Olympus. Light streamed in and loud shouts of celebration pierced the air; out of nowhere, trees blossomed with fruit and flowers, and birds chirped in the air. Naiads dressed in pastel gowns, prancing around handing around silver platters of food as the whimsical music floated through the golden gates, as if out of a Disney movie. She looked up, as a brightly smiling Naiad, with a blinding assortment of flowers in her locks, tapped her on the shoulder.

Annabeth accepted the pastry, a tiny lotus cake with a gravity-defying amount of sugar clinging onto it, and stared at it. Her eyes ran over the ridges of the dessert, carefully dissecting the architecture in her mind. Anything to forget.

 _There are six petals, six petals which curve inwards to touch. What is the optimal slope to let the petals droop so that they aren't too straight, but also don't fall off? How tall should-_

"Hey, Hermes wants to speak to you."

She looked up, distracted from her furious analysis of pastry infrastructure, to find Percy looking worriedly down at her.

She hastily threw on a grin. "Just give me a sec, Seaweed Brain."

Percy nodded and stepped back, though Annabeth saw him in the corner of her eye, fidgeting nervously. She turned back to her cake, nibbling slowly as she composed her thoughts.

Annabeth closed her eyes and focused. Although many, including her boyfriend, thought children of Athena had no powers aside from being smart, smart was much too simple a word. Instead, she concentrated, and a glowing web, formed by interlocking neon-colored strands, formed in her mind. Along each strand, she quickly plotted each of the potential things Hermes could want from her. It wasn't quite prophecy, but she could gather her thoughts and plan for any occasion. What could he want to talk about?

The strands connected at the end, twisting and weaving into one blurred face.

She opened her eyes, quickly stuffing the cake into her mouth and sneakily wiping her eyes with her sleeve, before standing up and heading over to Percy.

As they walked, Percy spoke less than usual, every so often looking over at her with a concerned expression. He was worried, she knew that. She made sure to meet his eyes every time, smiling softly to reassure him. After all, Percy was happy, and she didn't want to ruin that.

And she was happy too, right?

"Lord Hermes," she heard Percy say.

Ahead of her, standing next to a column so that she almost didn't notice him, was Hermes himself. She hastily bowed.

She looked up again, and almost fell down. It was a trick of the light, that was for sure. Maybe one of those stupid glowing finches Hera had made appear, casting down light on Hermes' face, but there was a light streak on his cheek. He looked almost exactly like his son, except his eyes were olive instead of blue.

She felt Percy's hand clench around hers, and rub circles into her palm with his thumb.

"Annabeth." He nodded at her. "Did you kill Luke?" He posed a question, but it lacked that lilt of curiosity that questions had, instead a dull monotone as if he knew the answer already.

She stared down at her feet. "Yes, sir."

Hermes sighed. "Well, congratulations. You saved Olympus. You saved me."

"Yeah, I guess. Is that it?"

"Yep." Hermes grinned at her, and she smiled back. Percy finally stopped drawing circles onto her palm, and started beaming, looking at both of them in turn, as if he couldn't believe they were all finally happy.

They walked back towards the party, hand in hand. Percy had reanimated into his normal self again, blathering a chain of nonsensical thoughts.

"And now that we're all happy, we can finally go on that date. I was talking to Apollo; he said he would give us a lift to anywhere in the world we wanted. How about Paris? I know you really like the Eiffel Tower, don't lie to me…"

She zoned him out, making sure to smile the entire time.

Happy. She was, happy. She repeated the word in her mind, over and over again, as if that would somehow make her believe. Happy, happy, happy.

But she saw Hermes, and she knew that face all too well. It had been looking back at her from the reflection in the fountain; eyes open a bit too wide, already-worn smile stretched too thin, responding to everything with too much joy.

* * *

The gods may have had their flaws, but even she had to admit; each one of them would be amazing US Senators, solely based on their ability to filibuster for hours, exaggerating every single detail. Somehow, Hades and Poseidon had the shortest speeches, with the former explaining his involvement succinctly: "We came, they died.", before sitting back down.

Instead, she was forced to sit next to Percy, politely applauding and smiling at every overdramatized story. Ares and his spears, one of which apparently hit so perfectly that Typhon stumbled, and that was what let Poseidon capture him. Apollo, who claimed his arrows pierced Typhon's skin perfectly, which caused Artemis to stand up and protest, because Gods forbid they could both be good archers.

But at the end of the day, even among all the fighting, the gods could agree on one thing- they were happy at their victory. Kronos was dead, shattered into tiny chunks impossible to reform.

They were happy. The wicked had fallen, smited by children of the gods.

As the day faded into night, Annabeth managed to slip away from Percy, who was doing a drunken dance-off with Grover and a few of the Party Ponies.

She wandered, not really going anywhere. Just away from the lights, from the partygoers and the happiness.

In the moonlight, Olympus was breathtaking. The shadows mixed and matched, casting different overlapping shades of gray over polished white columns. Beneath her, the city of New York lit up, a million lives flickering in the twilight.

She walked past temple after temple, over rippling brooks. It didn't matter where she was going, tomorrow she'd find Percy passed out in the courtyard, and they'd go back to Camp, and everyone would throw another party there and they'd be happy. But for now, it was just her.

Always the good girl, her mother's voice sounded in her mind. True, she was the good one, wasn't she? Always eager to help and to teach, to protect and to serve. She was adored by campers and mortals alike; even her school teachers thought her a model student, a truly rare feat amongst demigods. She was good. Because, after all, why wouldn't she be?

And Luke, well, he was bad. Wicked, even. He chose to join darkness and chaos and evil, to betray his friends and family, and so he was punished. And now, he would rest in punishment, probably in the depths of Tartarus along his master. No one would ever lay a lily on his grave; instead, if he got one at all, it would be hidden away in some remote corner, or instead placed in plain sight as if a warning.

She felt the ground begin to swirl, and fell, only to feel a light warmth underneath her. She opened her eyes again.

Before her, sat a young girl, tending a fireplace. A very familiar one, who looked about seven, with ragged blonde hair and feral gray eyes.

Annabeth reached out a finger to stroke her face. It couldn't be her…

"My child, sit down." The girl spoke with a voice much older than her age, and Annabeth immediately recognized her, although she couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. If only she could warn her heart, before she fell.

She bowed. "Lady Hestia."

The girl smiled and motioned for Annabeth to sit next to her.

"You are lost, no? Why would the heroine of Olympus be away from the party, stumbling ragged through the gardens?"

Annabeth looked at the fire, not speaking. Inside, the flames flickered in a chaotic dance, pushing and tugging on each other, and yet they all reached towards the heavens above.

"I don't know. I'm happy."

"Are you? I thought you were brave."

Annabeth looked up. It was definitely uncharacteristic of Hestia, but the little girl was staring fiercely at her. Did she really look like that before?

"It's brave to visit the past, to confront your mistakes. To admit that you aren't happy, that whatever innocence bestowed on you has been shredded into pieces- that is brave. Are you?"

She held out a finger to the fire, and the fire turned clear, only outlined by a flickering red glow. Inside, images flickered as if from an old-movie. Two girls, a guy, laughing about something over a fireplace. The dark interior of a metal can, as the sound of footsteps approached. A sun-bathed hill, the grass drenched with blood.

Annabeth closed her eyes, moving her hand forward until the flames tickled her fingers. She knew, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, she would hear the stories of that day told over and over again, until Percy got tired of telling them (unlikely) or until the truth was stretched so far that people stopped listening. And that there would be celebrations, ceremonies, because they had won. Good had won, and the wicked were vanquished. That would be then.

But for now, she mourns the wicked.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a room, brightly lit by an odd assortment of lamps casting a glow. The walls, a light shade of pink, were furnished with an assortment of paintings. One would notice that they were all classical, depicting various Greek warriors in combative poses with monsters and Gods. That is, if the screaming stopped.

From her point, huddled in the shadows, Annabeth could see the woman lying on the bed. The sheets didn't seem fresh; rather, they seemed stale and almost unclean, as if no one had changed them in days. The woman's breath was ragged as she lay there; every few minutes, a shrill scream would emit from her throat, as she gasped towards the ceiling.

May Castellan, Luke's mother. Unlike after Luke ran away, May seemed almost beautiful- her long, blond locks splayed across the bedsheets. Her eyes, when they weren't winced shut in pain, glittered like pearls. In her right hand, underneath a tiny sapphire ring, she clutched onto a scrap of paper.

She let out another scream, and Annabeth instinctively moved forward to help her, but felt a hand grab onto her wrist.

Hestia, now a brown-haired girl with golden eyes, pulled her back. "My dear, I brought you to observe. After all, you can't fix everything. You can't solve the past, only study it."

Annabeth nodded, although her teeth still clenched with every scream that May let out, tearing the sheets with her fingernails. Slowly, the lights began to dim, and the shutters blew open. A dark shadow swept across the room, blurring it slowly, until May and the bed, room and all, slowly blurred away into nothingness.

Hestia stepped forward, picking up the shred of paper which had somehow survived. The back, Annabeth could tell, had once been white; however, it had been crumpled and unfolded so many times, stained with sweat and blood, that it more resembled a murky crimson.

The front, though, was one of those old-style wedding poses, on a Polaroid. May Castellan's face, yet unmarred by insanity, shone brightly as she stood in a white, floral dress. On her shoulder rested a hand, an arm, a man dressed in a black tuxedo. The ink on his face was blurred, parts of it rubbed off, as if by a lonely finger with no one else to keep company.

Nevertheless, Annabeth could make him out- the sly smile, strong jawline, dirty blond hair.

* * *

They watched as a little boy burst into the darkness, as if an opening actor in a play. He seemed about two, a bobble-head copy of his father. Everywhere he ran, giggling and falling down and tumbling, the scene illuminated. Spot by spot, the darkness faded into the image of a beach.

Annabeth leapt back, almost falling to the ground.

"Yes, it was this beach- the waterside home his grandparents owned, that Luke first learned about the Gods."

As she spoke, toddler Luke moved over to his mother, who was sitting on a beach towel, tanning.

Annabeth recognized the beach well. When they were on the run, just the three of them, they had often come back to this beach. Somewhere off the shore of Cape Cod, they had stayed here, shivering in the darkness, waiting for monsters or authorities to pass. She remembered those cold nights, ducking next to the rocks that tore the shoreline, letting the salty breeze wash their scent out to sea.

Our own vacation home, Luke had joked, once when they were hiding. He had pointed to the stars, those stars undimmed by the lights of the cities, and told them how one day, they would meet at Olympus for a celebration in the heavens. Well,

"It was rare that a mortal, such as May, would inherit the gift of prophecy, but shreds and fragments of it slid through her bloodstream into Luke's." Hestia muttered softly, as if reading Annabeth's thoughts. "He couldn't see the future, per say, but he had glimpses."

Luke. The same Luke who was now bouncing in his mother's lap, looking up at the sky as the faint outline of stars shone even through the daylight. The same Luke who fell on her dagger.

Hestia nudged her, and Annabeth looked up just in time to catch a golden spark in the air, replaced by Hermes. He spoke to May for a bit, occasionally glancing down at Luke, who was staring at him with a curious expression.

Then, as if tugged by a furious puppeteer, May roughly nudged Luke off of her lap, and stood up. Her eyes swapped between glaring at Hermes and at his staff, as if daring him to blast her. He just sighed, and bent down to pat Luke on the head.

Like before, the image froze, then melted into a dark façade. They stood there in silence.

The air smelled like the beach, the salty overtones of the water. But while her memories of the beach were of refreshment, waves crashing into the shore and cycling the breeze, so that their scents were washed anew, this was different:

It was the smell of salt, crusted onto everything, putrid and overbearing, a constant reminder of loss.

"Luke's first memory of the gods."

Was he really born wicked?

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, and I hope you review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

As Hestia scrolled through Luke's prized memories, which he had apparently entrusted to her before going to Kronos, and the two visited them all, Annabeth began seeing a pattern. Luke's birth, childhood, memories when they were on the run- they were all defined by the same person, or the lack of the same person

Hermes.

When they were hiding out in some alley, hearing the monsters approach on the cobblestones from around the corner, she remembered how Luke used to pray, feverishly muttering to Hermes. She hadn't known her mother until camp, and Thalia was essentially estranged, so they all huddled together praying to Hermes. When Annabeth was really young, she always imagined one day that wings would sprout from their feet, and that they would be able to fly away from the ground, defying gravity just like Hermes.

They were never answered.

Luke's eyes slowly stopped being wide and innocent, caring and loving. Instead, he spoke of power and justice. He didn't curse the gods through his words, but Annabeth should've known. She should've known, when she asked Luke where the necklace from Hermes had gone, and he said he lost it by accident. When, slowly but steadily, the donations Luke swept into the sacrificial fire became more and more meager. And when she said nothing, plastered a fake smile, when she saw the scorpions Luke was keeping in his room. Maybe he wanted a pet, she had convinced herself.

Could she have saved him?

As she walked away from Hestia, that was the question on her mind. Was Luke a product of himself, some twisted ambition within him that was drawn out by the whisperings of Kronos, or was Luke a product of those around him?

"Hestia showed you, yes?"

She looked up in surprise, to find Hermes standing in front of her. The god, now that the light of the party was far behind them, seemed to lose the glowing aura that usually surrounded him. Instead, his face was weary.

"Yes, it was my fault. I was the bad father, the real villain of his story. Funny how I'm the one alive, worshipped even, while my son is dead and scorned?"

His eyes glittered with pain, and Annabeth felt her anger at him slowly dissipate.

"Do you know how it feels to see those looks of sympathy, from around every corner? One of my children recently told me, 'He's not actually our brother. No one that evil would come from you.' They'd laugh if they knew the truth, that if Kronos hadn't coaxed him, he would've done it anyways. He was a real bastard."

She stepped forward, and before she caught herself, she had slapped the God, who looked at her with a mixture of shock and pain, and surprisingly, no fury.

"Why did you leave him? He lived his life believing you would still care for him, that you actually wanted him, and you-"

"I didn't want him. He was an accident, and I would've lived with that, but it was because he was born that May went insane. She had been fated for prophecy, and he, Luke my Son, he was born and the Ancient Rules forbid Oracles to have children.

Do you, then, understand what I felt? Someone I loved, driven mad by my own mistake. What else but to cover up the mistake?"

He spoke as if he was pleading with her, to forgive him to justify himself, but she knew better than to look up. Instead, her eyes burned.

"I was a coward, I admit that. I should've owned up to my mistake. I lay at night, without ever finding a second of rest."

"Luke wasn't."

She felt his eyes boring into her bowed head, and she glared up fiercely, not caring of the consequences.

"He wasn't a coward. He was my friend."

Hermes looked down at her, half-sneering, half-pitiful. "You were friends? You told him that?"

She nodded, teary-eyed. "Until his last breath. Siblings, even."

Annabeth flinched, and looked up when she felt Hermes' hand resting on her shoulder. "There's one more thing you have to see." He held out a hand to her.

She looked at it, much as if it was a rotten tomato, pulsing with maggots. Although she had almost forgiven Hermes for abandoning them, she wasn't exactly past the years of betrayal and pain he had caused Luke.

"He told me to deliver it."

Her eyes shot up. "How did he talk to you?"

"My uncle said a security ghost popped into his palace to send it to him."

Luke had a message? She didn't exactly think Hermes was lying to her; although the god was immortal, she doubted he had the guts to. Rather, she was apprehensive, almost fearful, of what could be inside.

"It's for you."

She took his hand, blushing.

* * *

She gasped; it seemed Death didn't treat Luke well. His normally sharp cheekbones now jutted like needles from his mouth, tenting up the skin around. His eyes, although luckily not the dull amber color of Kronos, had all the blue drained out of them. It was if someone had taken Luke, stuck him in a photocopier, and printed out copies until the ink ran out.

"Hi Annabeth."

"Hi – Hi. Luke." She managed to stammer out, but he didn't seem to notice. It was as if she was the ghost, and his eyes stared vacantly to a spot right past her.

"I never thought, through all of those years, that you'd be the one to kill me in the end. And that I would like it so much." He cracked a small smile, as if what he had said was funny. As if his death was funny.

"Annie, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, and well, looking at you hurt- do you remember my promise?"

Did she remember? Luke didn't know how much she remembered it, how she had known through it all that in the end, Luke would turn back for her. Because, they were family.

"Family, I promised, though I bet you didn't forget." He smiled again, this time more genuine, and she couldn't help but feel tears well up in her eyes. "Always such a smart girl. Percy's lucky to have you."

His voice had dulled into barely a whisper at the mention of her boyfriend. She just wanted to reach out, to hug him and tell him that it was all right, that she didn't hate him, at the sound of his voice. It was the sound of a broken man, no not a man, a boy.

He was twelve again, holding out a too-scarred arm, attached to a too-young face, smiling at her. He had seemed so old, and so mature back then. So brave, confident.

But then again, the smiling boy among quivering children seems a giant.

"Percy, though. Why did he get everything? He had the mom who didn't go insane, who baked him cookies instead of forgetting he existed. The dad who prized him as a hero, a son he could be proud of, instead of a mistake. Friends, adoration, everything. What did he do that I didn't?"

Luke was shaking now, his eyes blazingly fierce, stark against his paled cheeks. In the image, he was already slowly melting away, as if the Underworld was reclaiming him to the shadows.

"But those didn't matter. He was a good guy, I'll give him that. He just got lucky."

"But why you? What right did he have to your heart, that I didn't earn? Did I not earn your heart? Did you not love me?"

Before she could stop herself, Annabeth had her arms around where Luke would be, if he was back in her arms. What she wouldn't give. Instead, she felt air, and yet she still held on tight.

"You were all I had that the Fates didn't take from me already. Couldn't I just have you? But he, he- He, Percy fucking Jackson, got you as well. Why did he get everything? And so, you see, Annie, I just had to try. To Kill him."

She sobbed again, but despite herself, she found some sense in his words. Why didn't she love him, except that when he entered her life, she thought of him as an older brother? And that when Percy came in, he was lucky, came in at the right time?

Was that all that separated the hero from the villain? A simple flaw in the yarn of the Fates?

"I guess you'll be happy now. I'm happy for you, Annie. Isn't this what you always dreamed of, confessed to Thalia and I? A family, a chance at success, everything. A chance to love and soar."

He was fading now, and Annabeth clutched the air tighter, as if that could keep him with her longer.

"I just always thought I would be there to catch you."

* * *

The funerals, as expected, were controversial. Nominated the leader of the security guards, Hestia watched over the proceedings, making sure that nothing got out of hand.

As the shrouds of dead demigods were burned, one by one, different people went forward. There was a surprising lack of tears; aside from Aphrodite gushing about each of her fallen "babies", and a few other people rushing forward, most seemed to have accepted it. They stood there with stoic faces, as if the heroes had died for an important impact, not as ragdolls trampled by Kronos.

And then it was the boy. Luke. Hestia watched carefully, as the shroud was moved onto the pyre. There were a few shouts of anger, sure, but they seemed to be quickly shut down by the crowd around them.

And although Hestia looked far and wide, throughout the entire crowd, Annabeth was nowhere to be found.

It wasn't until much later that night, when the people had mostly moved away, that Hestia found the girl crying quietly at the funeral hearth, spilled tears for a lost hero.


End file.
